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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26437318">The Strays</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moth2Flame/pseuds/Moth2Flame'>Moth2Flame</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Highschool AU [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>All For The Game - Nora Sakavic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aaron joins the household, Bee is a protective mumma bear, Betsy fosters Andrew, Gen, POV Betsy, references to animal abuse/torture, references to sexual abuse/rape, she loves her teenage trauma twins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:41:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,637</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26437318</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moth2Flame/pseuds/Moth2Flame</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>How Andrew Doe came into Betsy Dobson's care in the Not Another Highschool AU verse</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Andrew Minyard &amp; Betsy Dobson, Betsy Dobson &amp; Aaron Minyard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Highschool AU [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1921723</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Andrew Doe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Someone asked for Bee being a mum and I happily jumped on the excuse to write this. It got a lot longer than I expected, so I'll add how Aaron came to be under Bee's care in another chapter and probably another about Bee being a feral mother bear if I get around to it.</p><p>It can probably be read as a standalone at this stage. </p><p> </p><p>This one is alot more angsty than the original I've got going, I've tagged the warnings but please let me know if I need to add more.</p><p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Beatrice May Dobson was a woman who tried not to harbour negative feelings. Really. She didnt have a masters degree in psychology and not know that to deny oneself feeling negative emotions was detriment to one’s mental health, but there were ways and means of moving past such feelings, without dwelling on them.</p><p>Betsy was a stress-baker. </p><p>At the ripe old age of 54 she found it was the most effective method of sorting through her negative emotions. It wasnt just about the decadent chocolate creations or the melt-in-your-mouth buttery pastries that she crafted with her hands. Nor the time it took to get her thoughts out of her head. It was cathartic too: </p><p>Her OCD had every piece of furniture, every item she owned impeccably neat and tidy and exactly where it went, on perfect 90degree angles. Placing her bare hands into the mound of flour and sprinkling it all over her countertop, watching as some spilled minutely on the floor, allowing herself to feel that incessant tug of compulsion, breathing through it, and telling herself that she would clean it after, had the wonderful effect of allowing Betsy to take control of her compulsion in a safe and controlled manner.</p><p>Yes, stress baking was Betsy’s most preferred method of managing bad feelings and ill will; but it didnt matter how many chickpea curry pies or apple strudels or chocolate cupcakes she baked, and pricked, and kneaded and rolled - nothing could dim the cold fury that settled in her sternum.</p><p>She’d already loathed the entirety of the US’s foster care system before Andrew Joseph Doe had entered her life; how flawed, how neglectful, how uncaring it was. She had worked at three separate Juvenile detention facilities for over 20 years, she new the numbers. She knew the horrific realities.</p><p>She knew this, and she’d always loathed it. But it was a reality she couldn’t change, just hope to do some good, to help those she could reach. Just one. If she could just help one, then shed done something, y’know?</p><p>After Andrew Joseph Doe... well. She wanted to storm offices. Just whose, she wasnt precisely sure, but she’d start with those responsible for the fostering system on the east side of California. Her mouth was a taut, thin line as she pressed fists into her sourdough, scathing letters to various officials being written on the pages in her mind, the tension in her shoulders never leaving.</p><p>Her elbow jerked with her rough movement, knocking her glass of warm water to the floor with a devastating crash, and well. After her moment of anxious panic (she was so thankful that Andrew hadn’t been there to witness her nervous breakdown, the entire kitchen being scrubbed two times over before she could relax) She called her dear friend and old colleague Arja for some clarity she was struggling to find on her own.</p><p>After the customary greetings and small talk, Bee admitted to her negative feelings, her meltdown, at a loss of how to handle herself, unable to see why she couldn’t let it go.</p><p>“Betsy, dear,” Arja said in that smooth, calm voice. “I’m afraid this may not help at all, but it seems the reason this is effecting you so much is because its <em>personal</em>.”</p><p>“Oh,” she replied. “Well. Yes, you’re right, that is completely useless to me.”</p><p>Arja laughed something deep and soothing, silk over sand, and Betsy could see in her minds eye the plum painted lips over the 5 o’clock shadow.</p><p>“Four degrees and several publications and I cant for the life of me stop holding onto this fury. What use is all this knowledge if I cannot put it into practice? It feels like I’ve reverted back to 30-odd years ago; I feel rather like a fraud,” she admitted, frowning down into her honey and camomile tea.</p><p>Arja was quiet, but Betsy could hear her low hum on the other end.</p><p>“What would you tell another parent if they were in your shoes?”</p><p>Betsy sighed and ignored her irritation of being walked through this like she was entry level again, “I would tell them that they have the right to be angry. That they are allowed to be angry that the system had failed them. That anger is the appropriate response to a situation like this. ”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>Betsy shut her eyes and this sigh was like one of relief, something already settling within her, “And that it is important for them to try to move on. Because they’re child needs them, and that is what is most important. Healing. Growing. Acceptance. Managing the fallout. Accepting that we cannot change the past but we can control the future.”</p><p>Arja hummed, “and are you?”</p><p>“I-“ Betsy stopped. “Yes. I hope so. We’re trying. The most important thing is that he feels safe, hopefully comfortable one day. Its re-enforcing rules and boundaries and proving time and time again that I wont cross them.”</p><p>“Very good.”</p><p>“Is it always this hard?”</p><p>“Yes. Always. Welcome to parenthood, Betsy my oldest friend, may you come out the other side with at least half of your sanity intact.”</p><p>Betsy barked out a dry laugh, “only half?”</p><p>Arja hummed, “if you’re lucky.”</p><p>**</p><p>Betsy had only been in California for a seminar when she got the call that set her life on a path she never would have predicted. She was having lunch with an old student of hers -Emily Higgins, a social worker- when Emily had received a call about one of the children she was in charge of visiting. She was his 5th social worker and he was just recently placed in his 12th house in as many years. </p><p>She had already been speaking about the highly troubled boy, Andrew Doe. About how unsettled he was in every house he was placed in; stealing, lying, violent, apathetic. A troubled case, heading straight down the path to juvie like many before him, a natural effect of having such unstable foundations and no real love and care.</p><p>She received the call from the boy’s latest home, angry tense words over the phone, another family who’d given up on him. Emily made hurried goodbye’s, cutting their lunch short, and Betsy didnt think much of it until the following day when Emily called her back and asked for her help.</p><p>“I know this is very presumptuous of me, but I’m desperate, Betsy. They’re going to lock him up and he just wont talk to anyone and the only person I know who could possibly get through to him is you.”</p><p>“This is rather unorthodox.”</p><p>“I know. But I am desperate. Phil reckons... he knows a family. A good one. One that could be really good for Andrew, but the doctors at the clinic are sayings its psychosis. They want to put him in a ward and lock him up, Betsy. But its not. I just... I just <em>know</em> that its not. I don’t know what it is and he wont even look at me, but if I have any chance of keeping him out of being hospitalised I have to take it. I need your help.”</p><p>At the hospital, Betsy saw a tiny, pale blond boy who looked barely older than 9 years old, fighting against leather straps on white sheets, blood soaking through the bandages on his wrists, a desperate terror in his face. She knew in that moment she’d made the right decision to come. </p><p>Andrew Joseph Doe, it turned out, was one of her toughest ever cases. </p><p>The straps were the first thing to go, the clear terror in the boys eyes making it a necessity. He fought her every single step of the way. If Betsy wasnt so experienced -wasnt so settled within herself, was younger, even- he might have had her fooled. He almost did. Her week long trip turned into a month and she was almost ready to give her assessment over to Emily, that yes, hospitalisation might be what was best for him. Medication. Intensive therapy. That he might just be a danger to himself or those around him, but.</p><p>But.</p><p>Andrew Doe had been in one of his talkative moods. Those moods usually consisted of the boy saying what he could to drive Betsy away, nasty horrid things to try to get a rise out of her. A judgement. She knew this trick well and never fell for it. Letting his twisted musings wash over her, trying to par beneath the layers.</p><p>But she thought she might try something, her last desperate attempt, “Why fire?”</p><p>Andrew stopped, mouth open, before he grinned something wide and far too unfriendly. Something slightly unhinged and manic, like Betsy strongly suspected that he now was.</p><p>“Why not?” he said. “It was his favourite, after all.”</p><p>That was the most she’d gotten out of him about the incident yet.</p><p>(Incident meaning a youth had been hospitalised with third degree burns covering 70% of his body and a dangerous amount of smoke inhalation)</p><p>“Oh?” she’d felt like she was on the precipice of something. “Did he tell you that?”</p><p>Andrew dropped her gaze and stared at the table, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm. Too long passed, too silent. The subject was dropped and another rose up to take its place.</p><p>“Do you like kittens, shrink Dobson?”</p><p>Her mouth tightened slightly, “I do. Do you?”</p><p>He stared down at his fingers, a casual shrug jerking at his too thin shoulders as he bared his teeth at her, “Useless things, they are. Pathetic. Weak. Fast, but not overly bright, y’know. Makes them quite easy to catch. Easy to corner. Even better if you have some meat, then they’ll come straight to you, desperate for food. There’s hundreds of un-neutered strays around the city, did you know?”</p><p>“Yes,” she replied placidly with a nod. “I heard the mayor was trying to clean up.”</p><p>“They aren’t hard to find, you just have to know where to look. Back alleys, shitty neighbourhoods, on the outskirts behind the dodgy restaurants that manage to stay open despite being cesspools of filth; attracting rodents and feral animals. On a bad night you can pick up one or two, maybe a whole litter. On a good night, though?” he paused, a hum coming out between lips. “You can fill a whole sack.”</p><p>“Is that so?”</p><p>Andrew looked up at her and smiled like he was getting the reaction he wanted. She breathed and tried to remain impartial. He leaned forward over the table, his dark gaze burning into hers.</p><p>“Have you ever heard them? When they’re screaming?” he didnt wait for her answer, not that she would have had much to give. “Its a high, screeching sound, desperate and terrified. Not unlike any small living thing when its being tortured to death. They last several minutes before the smoke knocks them out, several long minutes of desperate cries and pained screeches, claws dragging uselessly at the sides of the bag, before they finally fall silent. Oh, and the <em>smell</em>. Its like nothing else. Fried fur mixed with cat piss and burning meat. It stays in your nostrils for days,” and his mouth twisted to something like a smile, something like a grimace, closing his eyes with an apathetic calm, whispering, “I still hear them in my dreams.”</p><p>Betsy’s heart was beating in her chest despite the heaviness there, the beat faster with adrenaline as she looked at this frail little boy who smiled like a supervillain, every inch of him reading danger and apathy, someone who might be too far gone. A horror child. Betsy could see what all the psychologist’s and social workers had seen before her: a lost cause.</p><p>Except for his eyes. Behind the black bags that resembled bruises, behind the unwavering stare of a gaze too wise and too hard for a boy of only 12. Right... there. She didnt see the apathetic uncaring of a sociopath, she saw a stray who was too small, too weak, cornered and desperate and shoved into a sack.</p><p>And at that moment she thought she had got it.</p><p>“Andrew,” she said, leaning forward, voice soft out of fear of a waver, staring straight into that spot left in him that was still a terrified little boy. “Tell me. Who burned the cats?”</p><p>He froze, gaze on hers. He blinked. He swallowed. He blinked again and his breath sucked harshly through his teeth. She could see his shoulders trembling, fists clenched in his lap. He looked like she’d slapped him, the shock knocking away the dark and dangerous facade he’d been wearing so damn convincingly she’d almost fallen for it.</p><p>“I already told you,” he said, inhaling shakily and licking his lips, but this time he sounded a hell of a lot more hollow. He dropped her gaze like he couldn’t force himself to hold it anymore. “So I decided to give him a taste of his own medicine.”</p><p>Betsy fought for him. </p><p>She had one social worker and two other psychologists disagreeing with her, but Beatrice May Dobson did not get where she was in life without fighting. Her expertise far out-stripped theirs, especially with this kind of trauma. </p><p>Betsy kept him out of juvie, out of the psych ward, told Emily that her husbands friends -the Spears- were unnecessary and took him home with her. What Andrew needed was someone who could handle his trauma, who he showed a modicum of trust with, and that person was Betsy. So she took him home.</p><p>Betsy had interacted with hundreds of children between the ages of 5 and 18 throughout her many years, but she’d never fostered somebody before. She’d never had children. It couldn’t be that hard, she’d foolishly thought, she had certificates along her walls, she wasnt going into this with nothing.</p><p>Oh, how naive she had been.</p><p>Everything was different when Andrew was <em>hers</em>. She set him up with psychiatrists she knew personally, letting Andrew have his pick of them. After the first three he realised that Betsy was serious when she promised that she wouldn’t force anyone on him and that he could choose, and he started to actually consider them. He met Arja, but Arja said immediately afterwards that it wouldn’t work. </p><p>Betsy sighed, “he will be properly educated on tolerance.”</p><p>“No,” Arja said her smooth, low tones. “It’s not that. I know what that looks like. Its something else and that’s all I will say on the matter.”</p><p>It was only three weeks in that Betsy had to battle her first Big One of the joys and sorrows that was parenthood. Betsy had been putting in a dark load for her washing machine, the barrel only half full, and peaked her eyes into Andrews bedroom to spot a pile of his classic dark clothing for the washing machine. </p><p>When she picked them up she noticed a rattle. A distinctive pill rattle.</p><p>Strange, Andrews medication was currently sitting on the counter downstairs next to the jug for him to take with his breakfast every morning. She mentally prepared herself for whatever it could be; adderall, Vicodin, various other prescription pills that kids took for recreational purposes and got themselves hooked on. It wasnt unexpected, not with Andrews background. But, still.</p><p>She pulled out the packet and froze. What she found was probably worse.</p><p>Waiting until Andrew got home was a slow test of her patience. She was nervous. She didnt get nervous with her patients but Andrew was not her patient, he was her foster child. She wasnt there to psychoanalyse him, she was there to make him feel safe. Protected. Make him feel comfortable about being honest. She pressed fingers to the headache still forming, sure that dealing with the psycho-analysis was much easier.</p><p>Andrew got home off the bus and true to form he headed straight for the stairs but Betsy called him from the kitchen table, a plate of chocolate brownies sitting in the centre.</p><p>She heard him pause on the steps. She waited, wondering whether he was going to start defying her yet or was still being obedient like a stranger. A near full minute passed, before his frame came around the doorway, expression wary and shy. Only three weeks and already he looked better fed. There was more colour in his cheeks. The dark bruises under his eyes still remained, though. He still wasnt sleeping. </p><p>She waved him to the chair and he sat. She offered him a brownie and he took one, nibbling the edges and eyeing her like he was waiting for her to pounce.</p><p>She sighed.</p><p>“Look, Andrew, we made a deal that we were going to be honest with each other. That that was the best way that this was going to work,” she said.</p><p>His expression shuttered, gaze falling to the table.</p><p>“So I need to be honest with you. I promised you that your room is yours and I wont go snooping. However, I do have to do your washing,” and this was the point that she picked up the small pill bottle and placed it on the table between them.</p><p>Andrew immediately froze, staring at the pills with an almost terrified stare.</p><p>“Ple- will you be honest with me, Andrew?” she asked, watching him carefully.</p><p>He waited. Not moving. Not saying anything. Just staring. </p><p>Then he swallowed and gave a small nod.</p><p>“Are these yours?” she asked, despite that his name was clearly printed on the bottle.</p><p>He closed his eyes briefly before giving a nod.</p><p>“Are you sexually active?” she pressed gently. God, he was <em>so young. Too</em> young. But she couldn’t say that.</p><p>His chest expanded. He still wouldn’t look at her. His hands trembled a little before he wrapped them around himself.</p><p>“It’s okay... if you are. Its your body. But I need to make sure that you have the education... that you’re safe. Always.” She took a calming breath. “So that you don’t catching any more STIs. We can talk about it, if you want. I can get you some pamphlets or send you correct websites, if you don’t. We can make sure that you have condoms and anything.... else...”</p><p>He was shaking his head rapidly, Betsy’s voice petering off.</p><p>She stopped talking, watching as Andrew almost clawed at his middle.</p><p>“No,” he said, still shaking his head in small jerky movements. “’m not.”</p><p>Oh, dear.</p><p>Yes. It was as she’d thought. (God, she’d hoped she’d been wrong) </p><p>Betsy Dobson had of course come into contact with victims of sexual abuse and rape. Of course she had. 1 in 5 woman, 1 in 33-71 men. Children, oh. That number was painfully high. She’d seen it far more times than it should ever be. She was a trained professional, she knew exactly how to handle it. She knew exactly what she had to do. She’d done this time and time and time again. She knew how to separate herself from this.</p><p>But she could not.</p><p>Something heavy was in her chest, clawing at her, as she watched the way Andrew hugged himself. The way he couldn’t meet her eyes. The <em>shame</em> that sat on him, on the complete wrong target, on an <em>innocent child</em>, and.</p><p>And she couldn’t push past her own feelings on this. She was entirely unprepared.</p><p>Drat.</p><p>“Okay,” she said, as calmly as she could. “This is something that we need to talk about-“</p><p>He started shaking his head more, eyes wide, “No.”</p><p>Oh, dear. This was rather painful.</p><p>“It doesn’t have to be now. Andrew?” she prompted, tilting down to try to coax him into catching her eye.</p><p>He stubbornly refused.</p><p>“It doesn’t have to be now. But sometime, in the future, this will need to be discussed. For now, I need you to be honest. This is very important. Can you do that?”</p><p>He seemed to stiffen. Then shrugged.</p><p>“Do you feel safe here?”</p><p>His eyes darted up to her, finally meeting her gaze, narrowed and defensive. Warily he nodded.</p><p>“Okay. Good. Is there anyone around you now, here, who makes you feel unsafe?”</p><p>He studied her face, then shook his head.</p><p>“Okay. Good,” She let out a breath. “I want you to promise me something. And I will promise you something in return, is that fair?”</p><p>He continued to stare at her, expression guarded and defiant. </p><p>“Promise me, that if anyone hurts you, or touches you, or does anything to make you feel unsafe. Promise me that you will tell me. Straight away, okay?”</p><p>Andrews breath came a little faster. He swallowed, mouth pinching as he stared at her with darkness swirling in his too young eyes. Vulnerable. That little crack she’d seen was all over his face now.</p><p>He nodded.</p><p>“Will you say it for me?” she pressed.</p><p>“I-“ he cleared his throat. Voice small and raspy he said, “I promise”</p><p>Betsy nodded, swallowing down the lump that had somehow formed in her throat. She leaned forward over the table and held Andrew Joseph Doe’s small defensive and vulnerable gaze and hoped her absolute sincerity came through when she said, “And I promise you, Andrew Doe, that if you ever tell me that somebody has hurt you or touched you or made you feel unsafe, that I <em>WILL</em> believe you. And I will do everything in my power to make sure that it never happens again. I promise.”</p><p>Andrews didnt say anything. He just looked at her. Looked at her like she was crazy. Like she was lying. Like she was stupid and had no idea what she was talking about. Like he was so desperate to believe her.</p><p>“Thank you for being honest with me, Andrew,” she said.</p><p>She held his gaze until he looked away first.</p><p>She gave him another brownie and a soda and put his medication next to the other in the kitchen. Then she left him and went upstairs and had splash water over her face, heart still racing in her chest, hands shaking. After she managed to talk herself down in the mirror, she took him straight to the hardware store.</p><p>He didnt say anything when they pulled up. He didnt say much, usually. After she’d taken him in, the vicious, defensive, violent boy she’d met had slowly sunk back into the shadows, a cautious and wary boy taking his place. His medication made his volatile moods more manageable, and he was acting far more like a just-turned 13 year old should.</p><p>She sent him to the lock and bolt section, telling him she needed a new lock and to pick the one he liked best. He shot her strange look but obeyed, eyes darting around the place as she made a quick perusal of the gardening section, hunting out fertiliser for her strawberries and seed potatoes for her vege garden.</p><p>She was just browsing the isles, meandering on her way back to Andrew, when she heard a brisk tone and then a voice she very rarely heard but would recognise anywhere, sounding defensive.</p><p>“I’m not even doing anything.”</p><p>She quickened her pace and made it round the isle just as a man in a polo with the stores logo on it stepped closer to Andrew in a clearly authoritive manner. His name was David Smalls, Betsy came here regularly enough to know his name. Had even met his wife at a few local gatherings. They usually shared a pleasant chat as he rung her up. That was certainly not going to be happening this time.</p><p>Well. This situation very much needed to be addressed. She was automatically on the defensive. </p><p>“Excuse me Mr Smalls, can I help you? ” Betsy asked in a firm but polite tone.</p><p>“Beatrice,” David stepped back and looked at her slightly shocked. He gestured to Andrew with an irritated hand. “This your boy?”</p><p>“Yes, he is,” she walked briskly and stood between him and Andrew automatically. “Is there a problem?”</p><p>“He was loitering. Kept putting his hands in his pockets,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “We have to keep an eye out for thieves, got a real problem with the local kids stealing.”</p><p>“No I wasn’t,“ Andrew said in a way that made Betsy think he hadn’t meant to be heard. </p><p>“Well. As you can see, Andrew is with me. So, now that that’s all cleared up, we’ll be heading on our way,” she said, in a tone that dared him to argue with her. She turned her back on him in favour of Andrew, who was still hovering behind her and glaring at the floor. </p><p>“Andrew, which one do you think is best?”</p><p>He shrugged, wary gaze darting to Mr Smalls. Betsy shot the man an inquiring look and he quickly busied himself down another isle. </p><p>Betsy found herself unreasonably irritated with the man. </p><p>Andrew picked out a simple bolt lock and it wasn’t until they were in the car that he asked what it was for. </p><p>“Your bedroom, ” she said, with a tight smile. He nodded but kept his silence until they got home. </p><p>Betsy sent Andrew off inside, warning him against eating more brownie before dinner, dropped her gardening supplies and pulled out her electric drill. Her mother had been a widow, raising two girls and a farm (much less ordinary in those days) and had to do most everything herself. As a result Betsy Dobson knew her way around tools and had a modest collection. </p><p>“Right,” she said, plugging the drill into the nearest socket in Andrews room. “Where do you want it?”</p><p>Andrew gave her that look again, the one that said she was crazy. He didn’t say anything. </p><p>“Here?” she asked placing it at his hand height, within easy reach. </p><p>He just stared, his brow furrowed, “Inside?”</p><p>Something in her chest cracked a little. Something heavy and sharp piercing into her heart. </p><p>“Of course, Andrew,” she said, her voice strong despite her internal wavering. “This is for you. It’s yours.”</p><p>He looked at her and looked at her like he was testing out her words. Like he didn’t believe her. Finally, he nodded, fingers flicking to the door, “There’s good.”</p><p>“Good,” she said. “Then that’s where it will go. And stay. Until such time you no longer feel that you need it.”</p><p>It was that next day when Andrew went off to school that Betsy turned her raging feelings into culinary treats and lamented on her helplessness.</p><p>It was a week later, when the bags under Andrews eyes had turned to more smudges than bruises, that Andrew allowed Betsy to give him their first tentative hug, voice muffled into her shirt as he spoke, “Thank you... Bee.”</p><p>And her heart just cracked right open for him. </p><p>**</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Part 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Andrew and Bee discover the existance of Aaron and things start to change</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A late night phone call had been the start of it, Andrew Doe just hadn’t known it at the time. </p>
<p>No, Andrew was too busy reading Deltora Quest for the umpteenth time, having found the entire first series crammed carelessly into the back shelf of downtown’s Secondhand Emporium. Dog-eared and substance-stained, with two of the paperbacks missing their covers, Andrew had scored the set for $1.75 and had taken them home with a sense of possessive pride for his first ever purchase with his own money that he’d earned all by himself.</p>
<p>(He’d kept them in a black rubbish bag under his bed for weeks, worried they'd somehow disappear or that someone would come in and take them, but that's a story for another time)</p>
<p>So it came quite out of the blue for him, then, when two days later Bee sat him down at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around her favourite tea mug. She had given Andrew a heavy stare that had put a spike in his chest, mind frantically searching for what he’d done wrong, why she was going to send him away.</p>
<p>She told Andrew about the phone call she’d received two nights previously from a police officer known as constable Higgins. The constable, she said, was the husband of Andrew’s last social worker. That had seemed strange in and of itself, and Andrew wondered just which one of the horrid things he'd done his childhood the pig could be hounding about him now. He wondered If it was enough for Bee to send him away, if this little piece of something he had would once again vanish. If he’d be allowed to take his books.</p>
<p>She didn't, though.</p>
<p>There’d been a car crash, she'd said. The woman, Tilda Minyard, had died at the scene, but her son, Aaron, still remained in intensive care. Andrew had listened and waited and wondered why he was supposed to care about this random dead mother and her injured kid.</p>
<p>But then she’d pulled out a printed piece of paper. On it was a photocopy of a black and white student ID. And on the ID was his own face, from some school in Columbia he’d never before attended.</p>
<p>"Andrew," she said, "You don't have to do anything with this information. But you do have the right to know. We can't be sure without the proper tests but, we believe that this boy may be your biological twin."</p>
<p>And Andrew had felt nothing. Not for the guy in the picture nor the dead mother he’d never had. He'd never known them, never had them. So what did it matter that there could be some genetics of his out there? They'd obviously never wanted him, and he didn't want <em>them.</em></p>
<p>Apparently the apathy had only been one sided, because a few months later, Andrew had received two letters in the mail. </p>
<p>One from a man named Luther Hemmick, who claimed to be Andrew's uncle (the letter had technically been addressed to Bee, but Andrew had been allowed to read it.) and the other from his apparent twin. The writing was messy (but annoyingly neater than Andrews), all tilted stems and small circles, and the letter read entirely awkward, bursting with too many things but filled with absolutely nothing.</p>
<p>There were smudge marks on the lined refill, though. Telling ones. Crisp blue letters that bled out sideways like little contrails, and the ghost of a crescent print tucked on the left like it had rested there long enough to make a mark, before moving at a frantic pace across the page. Andrew could read every pause of thought in the letters that had dried clean, and every rush of them as they trailed across the page as though reaching for each other.</p>
<p>There was something about this guy’s --this Aaron Minyard’s-- sloppy left-handed writing that was too eerily similar to Andrews own sloppy, left-handed writing. If Andrews apathy was a shoe, then this letter was a stone, suddenly digging into all the soft parts of Andrews foot; not crippling in itself but unmistakably there, hitting unexpected nerves without rhyme or reason and causing Andrew to falter slightly in his step.</p>
<p>They met. Even without a DNA test, it was clear from the first moment they stood in front of each other that they were twins. Same hazel coloured eyes, same nose, same chin. Same height (although Aaron swears he was at least an inch taller, the boldface liar). Andrew's hair was darker, though. Dirtier looking. Aarons was a far lighter blond, face more tan and freckled like he spent most of his time in the sun. It was like staring into some fucked up mirror, seeing his face looking back at him and not recognising a single inch of it. </p>
<p>It was awkward. And stilted. And Aaron seemed to clam up the moment Andrew shot him down at the very mention of Tilda. It was a waste of time, really. They may be twins but they weren't <em>brothers.</em> Never would be, as far as Andrew was concerned.</p>
<p>He met Luther and Maria Hemmick, and he'd taken an instant disliking to them. If it wasn't the cross around their necks, then it was the way Luther spoke to Bee after discovering that she was both a non-christian and unmarried. Luther wanted Andrew to live with them, be a family. Andrew was adamant in his no. (Luther made the mistake of criticising Bee’s choice to leave the decision entirely up to Andrew. Andrew had never before witnessed anyone receive such a carefully crafted reprimand and wondered if he himself could harness such an excellent superpower) </p>
<p>That had seemed the end of it. Andrew would stay with Bee and Aaron would stay with his uncle’s family and every week or so they’d meet up in some various place for an hour or so and sit, or stand, or lean in the general vicinity of each other --all for the sake of ‘bonding’ or something equally cringe-worthy and pointless. Andrew had resolved to put it from his mind but, three months later, he’d met his cousin Nicholas. </p>
<p>Nicholas, who had greeted Andrew with far more enthusiasm than was ever necessary and asked that he call him Nicky. Nicky, who had just come back home from a place called Camp Holloway. Nicky, who was a sickly pale shell barely masked behind an over-buoyant personality. Andrew had seen him and realised that Aaron couldn't stay there any longer. He may not know Aaron, but Andrew had been in far too many pleasant homes that hid terrible secrets and he'd never wish that upon anybody.</p>
<p>Five months later Aaron Minyard <em>--his twin--</em> was moving into the spare bedroom down the hall and Andrew was finding he was starting to actually feel something. It started in his chest and fizzed unpleasantly under his skin like a live wire; </p>
<p>Resentment.</p>
<p>Andrew was a foster child. He didn't have things, he didn’t form attachments, and everything in his life was temporary. And then he had Bee. And in his weaker moments, he let himself believe that he could keep her. He let himself hope. He let himself settle. </p>
<p>And it was fine, at first. Aaron followed him around like some kind of lost puppy and Andrew chose to ignore his existence almost entirely, but they were safe, with Bee. Aaron was cautious around her at first, but then they fell into a sort of rapport, a rhythm, where Aaron pretended he didn't want to be there and Bee pretended that she believed him. </p>
<p>Then one day Aaron made Bee laugh so hard she snorted, looking fond and happy despite his scowl, and Andrew felt a bone-deep curl of something awful in his chest.</p>
<p>Hindsight may be 20/20, but at the time it had been a jarring surprise when they discovered just how much Andrew did not like to share. More so, Andrew found himself completely shocked by his own possessive jealousy and, unable to handle it, he reacted the only way he knew how; he rebelled.</p>
<p>It took Andrew getting taken to the police department for tagging for Bee to finally snap. He was sure this was it. And through the entire time he sat there and glared at his paint-stained boots, he was sure that Bee wouldn't even come. That instead he’d meet another cardboard-cutout social worker who would take him to his new address and his brother would get to live happily ever after with Bee (he was such a goody-two-shoes, always so studious and quiet and <em>bleh</em>) and Andrew would lose the one good thing he'd ever had in his life and it was all his brothers fault.</p>
<p>Bee did come, though. Her mouth was pinched and her eyes were hard and she said nothing the entire ride home. Andrew walked silently up to his room. He pulled out his old, worn pillowcase and started stuffing in his meagre possessions (he’d still kept it, just in case. It was faded red --almost a washed out pink-- and it was hideous but it was <em>his</em>). His hands stalled when they got to his books (he had more now, too. More forgotten novels to he’d added to his collection), fingers weak and useless with trembles as he tried to stuff them carefully around his clothes. </p>
<p>He knew what this meant. It was a process he knew well.</p>
<p>“Andrew, it is very clear that we need to- and just <em>where</em> do you think you're going?” Bee's stern gaze narrowed as she spotted his overflowing pillowcase. Her arms crossed over her chest, “If you think that you are not grounded for the foreseeable future, then think again, Mister. I am <em>very</em> disappointed in your recent behaviour.”</p>
<p>Andrew stilled. He didn't understand what was going on. He couldn't move, couldn't think. He could hardly breathe, this terrible weight squeezing at his chest. So he just stared.</p>
<p>Aaron, apparently, could. He stepped out, took one look at the bag in Andrews hand, and paled. He started rambling, voice jerky and scratchy where it cracked in places, a high speed chatter of anxious explanations. It started with,<em> “It wasn't him, it was me. It was my fault,” </em>and ended with, <em>“So there, you can't kick him out.”</em></p>
<p>Andrew hadn't been sure what the raw aching in his chest was. It squeezed and tugged something fierce, but he was too numb to feel angry. He wasn't even capable of finding himself annoyed that Aaron had just confessed to the wrong crime, unintentionally informing Bee of the cigarette smoking on school grounds that she'd previously been unaware of.</p>
<p>Andrew studied the carpet like it was a particularly interesting picture, his brother's voice dying in the air. It couldn't really get much worse.</p>
<p>Bee cursed. Andrew's eyes snapped up to her immediately because Bee <em>did not</em> curse. She had a hand pressed over her mouth and an agonised look in her dark gaze. It was the reaction Andrew was expecting when she found out that Andrew had been smoking (there's no way she’d believe it was Aaron. For starters, he was asthmatic). Her opinion on cigarettes was clear, due to her mother having died from lung cancer as a pack-a-day smoker. Andrew looked back down to the ground, steeling himself.</p>
<p>He'd known how much it would hurt her. He'd done it anyway.</p>
<p>“Andrew,” she said, voice a little stern and a little cracked, “go put your things back into your room, you won't be needing them at the moment. Aaron, would you mind putting the jug on for me? I expect both of you to be sitting in the lounge. I’ll be there in a moment, then we’re going to have a little chat. ”</p>
<p>Both of them awkwardly shuffled, doing what they were told with the heavy air of impending doom.  </p>
<p>Bee sat down in front of them and Andrew stared at the floor, his twin in a position mirroring his, whispering nonsensical things like, "she won't kick you out. She won't. She can't."</p>
<p>But Andrew had been through this before and he knew that she definitely could.</p>
<p>Then she said, “Neither of you are going anywhere. Not unless you want to.”</p>
<p>And then, for some unfathomable reason, she apologised. </p>
<p>Andrew didn't understand how this situation had turned from being sent away to Bee apologising. </p>
<p>Aaron was asked to give them a moment alone. He hesitated, though. Usually he was always quick to jump to Bee's requests, like he feared a reprimand if he didnt. But this time he lingered, gaze skittering to Andrew and holding like he was waiting for something, feet refusing to budge on the floor.</p>
<p>"Is that okay, Andrew?" Bee asked him. </p>
<p>He frowned and nodded. Andrew felt rubbed so raw he’d lost all sensation.</p>
<p>(It wasn't until later that Andrew realised that Aaron’s hesitation was for him, not wanting to leave him alone to face whatever it was by himself. At the time, though, it just didn't compute.)</p>
<p>Then it was Andrew left with Bee and then Bee left for her office. Andrew stared at his hands until she returned. Bee placed a careful hand beside his on the table, a small stack of papers underneath her palm. </p>
<p>Andrew had stared at the papers, words legible but none of them retaining in his brain. She told him that she’d wanted to wait, that she’d wanted to give him more time to settle in. That she should have told him her intentions sooner. That now she understood why he was being so rebellious. That she loved him. That if she ever found out he was smoking again she would ground him until he was thirty.</p>
<p>Andrew made it to his room feeling a strange but welcome sense of calm. One he hadn't felt for a long time, not since his brother had moved in. </p>
<p>Aaron waited for him outside his door, followed him in when Andrew entered, peered at the pages in Andrew's hands and tugged them from an unristing grip.</p>
<p>“Are we staying?” his brother had asked him, like it was a simple question. Like the ‘we’ was natural. Like the staying or going was the only question, not that they'd be doing it together. And Andrew realised that, at the tender age of thirteen, he'd been so worried that his smart, quiet and amenable brother would take Bee away from him, that he hadn't realised that the only person whose attention Aaron had really wanted was his own.</p>
<p>(Of course he hadn't, every home before had been a constant competition. Desperate children setting each other up and stabbing each other in the back just for a scrap of affection, of praise, of food, of a stilled hand)</p>
<p>Andrew had never been anyone's first choice before. </p>
<p>He looked at Aaron. His brother, his twin. The boy he’d known now for seven months, two weeks and six days. He wondered if Aaron had ever been anyone's first choice either.</p>
<p>Maybe they could be each other's first choice.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Andrew had said. “If you want to.”</p>
<p>Aaron's face had twisted, brow pinched and expression unsure, “if you... if you sign that, will we still be brothers?”</p>
<p>Andrew looked down at the papers then back up to Aaron. He nodded. “Yes. We’ll always be brothers."</p>
<p>"You have to promise," Aaron said like it was important. Andrew had never seen him look so urgent before.</p>
<p>Something shifted, a dislocated bone clicking back into place. It burned something painful, but the relief overwhelmed everything.</p>
<p>"I promise,” Andrew said, the weight of it already settling over him. Not holding him down, though. More like a blanket, a settling warmth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>**</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Three months later Andrew was officially adopted by Bee. That same day they filed a name change application. Bee became his legal guardian and Andrew Joseph was no longer a Doe.</p>
<p>He was a Minyard.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>**</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks so much for reading :)</p>
<p>&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Part 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Betsy and Aaron need to have an important conversation.<br/>We're back to Betsy's POV</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, i may have gotten a little impassioned in this one guys,<br/>here goes...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Betsy wasn't fooled to think she could predict how this would go. She knew better now. It didn't matter what she had learned when she was a practicing psychiatrist, nor how many books one read or interactions one had with a multitude of troubled children and adolescence, everything was different when they were your own.</p>
<p>Oh, how she ached for them sometimes, how helpless she felt at others. How worried she was when they came home later or didn't reply or would hide away in their rooms and refuse to speak for days on end. </p>
<p>As a result, her baking was becoming a very frequent endeavor, which wasn't very good for maintaining a healthy waistline and Betsy was hardly as active as she had been when she was younger (And her doctor might have informed her that she had a high risk of developing diabetes if she didn't start making some important changes to her diet). She needed a deviation, (they had four chocolate mud cakes and enough various other baked goods in their chest-freezer that they'd survive an apocalypse) so she turned to alternative, healthier options for her ever-increasing stress-load and used them to banish her incessant worries. She was moderately impressed with her refined-sugar-free, dairy-free, wholegrain, bran, banana and zucchini muffins.</p>
<p>The two teenage boys however, not so much.</p>
<p>Two. She had <em>two</em> of them now.</p>
<p>Betsy had never wanted children. She loved children, found them so fascinating and pure, unblemished by the trials of life and its many perils --and the ones that weren't, who needed even more devotion and care, she loved them most-- but she'd always known she'd never wanted any herself.</p>
<p>Yet, now she had twin teenage boys. Boys who had seen things no child should have ever seen, and she wouldn't trade them for the entire world. It was rather all-encompassing, this feeling. She found herself seated on the other side of the couch, worrying about her wards and all the many ways that life could knock them down.</p>
<p>(Arja laughed at her when she complained that she was starting to fear for her sanity. Betsy told her that was incredibly unhelpful, and Arja unhelpfully reminded her that she wasn't her psychiatrist.) </p>
<p>So after she picked Aaron up from his therapy session, she drove him out to the park and brought him mint chocolate chip ice cream and pretended not to notice his skittishness.</p>
<p>He was like that with her, still. Even after a year. Wary of any kindness, much like his brother. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Betsy was emboldened in her resolve to prove to them that it would never happen. She knew words meant nothing, here. Not without actions.</p>
<p>And Aaron was no fool. He knew her well enough by now, could probably feel her nervousness (because she <em>was</em> nervous, despite her inner thoughts telling her that it didn't matter his answer, this wasn't about her, it was about<em> him.</em> It was about Aaron knowing that he was wanted and loved, regardless of whichever choice he may make), and his reaction was purely instinctual, honed from years of hypervigilance to his mothers erratic moods. </p>
<p>Betsy didn't like to think on the twins biological mother too much. It made her feel quite wretched things.</p>
<p>She smiled at him though, and some of the tension that was once ever-present in his shoulders, loosened to their normally hunched teenage state. He didn't smile back and she'd never expected him to.</p>
<p>Aaron was vastly different from Andrew and that had never surprised her. What did surprise her, though, was how eerily similar they could be, despite their thirteen year separation. It was subtle, at first, but once you lived with them and watched them and fed them and cared for them, you couldn't help but notice these things. Sometimes you could hear the same song playing on different headsets, sometimes it was in the way they tied their shoes, or held their mouths when they tasted one of Betsy's more adventurous cooking experiments, before declaring it inedible. </p>
<p>But a lot of it was in the way they cared for one another; the first to shoot the other down but also the first to raise a fist in the others defense (that hadn't been the most pleasant trip to the principal's office). But there was something between them despite their years apart. Something that warmed Betsy's heart to see, even as they sniped and sneered at one another over the dinner table. </p>
<p>They loved each other, although Betsy figured it'd be years before they'd ever admit it outloud. (Not that she didn't prod at that gently in their softer, separated moments. Or put out wry comments when they were being particularly antagonistic, that sent them to their rooms in disgust. What was parenthood, after all, if you couldn't have a little fun with their pseudo-phobia of feelings?)</p>
<p>But there were many ways in which they were different, and one of them was the way in which they needed her.</p>
<p>Andrew had needed a solid anchor. Someone he could lean on and trust and who always had his best interest at heart. Someone who would listen to him, believe him, believe <em>in him</em> and love him unconditionally. Someone who would always put him first. He needed a mother, and Betsy had found that she needed him just as much.</p>
<p>Aaron was different. He already had a mother and it was clear from the get-go that he had no interest in Betsy trying to fill that role. Aaron came because of Andrew, but that didn't mean that Betsy loved him any less. Their relationship was different; Aaron needed a structured home life and support for his goals. He needed stability and faith -trust too- but he needed someone to help guide him into making the right choices and care for him through his dark days and not let him punish himself harshly for the smallest of failings. He needed Betsy as a guidance figure, to care for him, but their relationship was not quite as attached.</p>
<p>But Betsy <em>was</em> quite attached, and she wanted him to know it. </p>
<p>She'd learned from Andrew just how fragile the balance could feel between them when a variable was changed, and although she hoped that feeling of unease settled into surety over time, she knew that time was still a long journey ahead and she had a lot of ground to cover and miles to walk with them.</p>
<p>She knew Aaron stayed for Andrew, but she wondered if he'd want to stay for her, too. </p>
<p>So she took him to a worn wooden bench and they watched the ducks in the lake and Aaron sighed loudly and kicked his shoes like he was bored, but Betsy thought that maybe she could see right through him sometimes.</p>
<p>"So… you gonna tell me why we're at the park or are we gonna keep staring at obese ducks tryna score some more food?" He asked, licking the side of his ice cream as he slouched in the seat. He always slouched, like he was trying to make himself smaller. Betsy longed for a time when he didn't feel so much weight on his shoulders.</p>
<p>"Do you want to keep watching the ducks?" She asked him with a small smile.</p>
<p>"Don't do that," he frowned at his ice cream.</p>
<p>"Do what?"</p>
<p>He scoffed, waving his hand at her, "that thing you do where you wanna talk about something and you change it around to us bringing it up. Don't do that."</p>
<p>"Alright," she found herself huffing a laugh. Yet another thing that was different about them, Andrew seemed to enjoy their round-about conversations whereas Aaron liked to get straight to the point. "I'll cut to the chase, shall I?"</p>
<p>He shrugged, and he almost did manage to make it look uncaring but Betsy could see the tension once again creep up into his shoulders.</p>
<p>"I have something to ask you, Aaron. But first, know that whatever you decide, it doesn't have to change anything. Also, you need to know that I'm asking this because I want to and not for any other reason, okay?" She said, waiting for his nod despite the unease that was written all over his face. </p>
<p>"Would you- no," she shook her head, sighing out her next words because they didn't feel right. Goddess, she was nervous. </p>
<p>"Aaron dear, may I keep you?" She finally asked, looking at him steadily and hoping he could hear what she was really saying, <em>will you let me love you and care for you? </em></p>
<p>He didn't say anything, in his hazel stare was only shock and disbelief.</p>
<p>(Another similarity, these poor boys so unused to being wanted and loved that they shied away from it, unbelieving that they were deserving of it) </p>
<p>"It is your choice, of course. And you don't have to make it now. It's not a decision you ever even have to make, but from now until the end it will always be there. I care for you deeply, and you will always be in my heart no matter where you go," and she smiled at him through the little lump in her throat that these precious boys always seemed to inflict. "Piece of paper or not."</p>
<p>He didn't say anything for the longest time. He looked away from her and stared at the ice cream in his hand but never made a move to touch it, even as it dripped down his fingers (and Betsy concentrated her efforts into not acknowledging it).</p>
<p>Then, he dropped it. It made a wet slap on the concrete and Betsy almost flinched at the sound. She considered him and wondered if he'd done it on purpose, or if he even knew he was.</p>
<p>"This is about Andrew," he said finally.</p>
<p>Betsy took that with grace because she knew it would come to this part. So similar, they were. Always valuing the other above themselves.</p>
<p>"I know that's one way to see it," she said. "And I suppose it is, in an around-about way. We met through Andrew and you've stayed to be close to him. But that's not all that it is. I consider you a very vital part of my family, Aaron. Had Andrew made a different choice, I would still feel the same. Forgive me and my soft heart, but I am rather fond of you Minyards. <em>Both of you."</em></p>
<p>He curled his hands in his lap, grimacing at the stickiness that covered them. </p>
<p>"What-" he licked his lips nervously, "what does that mean, exactly?"</p>
<p>Betsy looked out towards the, admittedly, rather round looking ducks and thought about how life had brought her here, to this point. Somewhere she'd never thought she'd be but couldn't want for anything else. "It would mean I would have total legal guardianship of you. That, until you turned eighteen, I would be responsible for you. I would be the first point of call for any and all emergencies, would be able to make decisions on your behalf until you were legally allowed to make your own, and be responsible for your care and wellbeing until such a time as you decide you didn't need it. I would be your guardian, and you would be my adopted ward, or whichever name you'd prefer to call it."</p>
<p>"I don't…” he said quietly, “I don't know if-" he cut himself off, jaw hardening.</p>
<p>"You don't have to, dear,” Betsy smiled at him, trying to assure him. He didn't back look at her, gaze pinned to his hands. “It is there if you want it, but if you don't then it changes nothing. Nothing you don't want to change. I am here, regardless." </p>
<p>Betsy had never laid her heart on the line. In all her years she'd never met one who stuck. Maybe it was because she was brought up by a single mother, or maybe she was always this way, but Beatrice May Dobson had always been a full circuit into herself until two young, traumatized boys had knocked her all her wires loose and fitted themselves into sockets she hadn't even known she'd had.</p>
<p>It felt a lot like putting her heart on the line right now. Arja was going to be smug about this one.</p>
<p>“I, uh… I'll think about it," he said, like her heart wasn't squeezing just that little bit. She wouldn't pressure him, of course, and didn't want to push him in any direction, but she could admit to herself that she'd be disappointed if he chose not to. She'd understand, of course. But. But she wanted him to choose her, too.</p>
<p>They drove home in relative silence, Aaron leaned against the window and Betsy watching the road and other drivers meticulously for the smoothest possible ride.</p>
<p>And Betsy thought about this. She thought about how Aaron was staring distantly out the window as she was driving and he wasn't nervous to be with her, despite his terrible crash, despite his intense fear of being inside a moving vehicle. He sat there with total trust in her, believing she would keep him safe and she realised that that, truly, was enough. That really was all she needed. Even if he chose not to, she would still fight for him and love him and be the safe space he needed to grow and achieve, to always catch him when he fell. It didn't need to be official.</p>
<p>They were the Dobson/Minyard family anyway.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>**</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He came to her, weeks later. She had put it from her mind, mostly, and she hadn't been expecting it, but he'd lingered as she'd watched her detective drama, and she'd waited patiently for him to say what was on his mind.</p>
<p>She wasn't as disappointed as she'd worried she'd be. She understood his feeling of loyalty to his mother, his hesitation to take that away. She couldn't tell him it wouldn't, because it was something that he was still dealing with. And would, probably, for a long time to come. But she would be there regardless.</p>
<p>What hurt most was witnessing his tears. The way he tried to hold them back, how he stuffed it all down and tried to swallow it like it was something horrid he had to consume. That cut her the deepest, watching this weight and wishing so desperately that she could just reach inside and pull it away, ease the ache, knead out all the tension into warm fluffy dough.</p>
<p>Nothing had prepared her for this.</p>
<p>She asked if she could hug him, heart in her throat, and he let her. She folded her arms around him and he cried a terrible sob that got muffled in her knitted shawl. His hands were fists against her back and Betsy held him as his cries slowly eased and he pulled back, rubbing his eyes and looking mildly appalled at himself.</p>
<p>Betsy knew just what to do.</p>
<p>"I think I'd rather like a hot chocolate, wouldn't you?" She asked, wiping a wayward tear from her cheek.</p>
<p>He huffed out a laugh that was still a little strangled, "and one of the real brownies?" He asked cheekily. </p>
<p>"You know what, Aaron," she said. "I was just thinking the same thing."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>**</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Last chapter of NAHA is written and just needs to be edited. So, baring any catastrpohies (and provided i dont suddenly despise everything I've written), I SHOULD be able to get it out sometime next week. Hopefully. </p>
<p>Theres possibly one more chapter of this one coming, where Betsy deals with the aftermath of Andrew almost breaking a teacher's fingers and goes all feral mother bear, but thats dependant on whether or not i lose interest after posting the last proper chapter. We'll see.</p>
<p>Thank you so much for reading, you guys are awesome :)</p>
<p>&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So there's that, huh.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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